


Sense of Place

by HermaiaMoira



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Bullying, Dubious Consent, Dubious Science, Hypnotism, M/M, Someone Helps Will Graham, Unethical Medicine, Will Graham's childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaiaMoira/pseuds/HermaiaMoira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal tries age regression hypnosis with Will and implants an image of himself at every crucial stage in his psychological development, creating a deep sense of codependency. Includes non-canonical childhood memories for Will Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FannibalLecter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannibalLecter/gifts).



> “The Problem Will has is too many mirror neurons. Our heads are filled with them when we are children. Supposed to help us socialize and then melt away. But Will held onto his, which makes knowing who he is a challenge.”
> 
> “Something so foreign about family; like an ill-fitting suit. I never connected to the concept.”

The experiment was meant to be a way for Will to try and readjust his own neurology. He was in Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen when the doctor shared his idea.

“Mirror neurons are a precious commodity of the brain,” Dr. Lecter had told him. “They are crucial to childhood development and for learning language, non-verbal communication, and of course, empathy.”

“My brain just decided to hoard that precious commodity,” Will replied, lifting a glass of wine.

“Yes it did,” Hannibal said. “And well past the time when one must forge ahead, forming an original identity rather than reflecting others, you continue to be a mirror.”

Will pursed his mouth around a swallow of his drink and flinched.

“I have some idea of my own identity.”

“But it is unclear,” Hannibal pointed out, “Always fighting the intruding shadows of other identities.”

Will nodded and stared at the glass in his hand.

“You said that you never connected to the concept of family,” Hannibal said. He thought for a moment then asked, “Your father… was he an emotionally rigid man?”

Will chuckled, “Very stoic.”

“I imagine he didn’t touch you very often, didn’t display much of anything for those mirror neurons to pick up on.”

“I can’t tell you what he would have been labeled as,” Will explained, “But he was very… removed… yes. I could never tell what he was thinking or feeling at any time. Occasionally, he would seem angry. His jaw would tense and his eyes drift away from me, but he didn't say a word. I hated not knowing why.”

“Your brain was desperately trying to protect you by learning how to predict him.”

“It would seem so.”

“And you moved so often, that there was no one outside of your father to really connect to either.”

“I had difficulty latching onto any sense of place,” Will replied. “I spent a great deal of time inside my own head.”

“Perhaps that is the reason your mirror neurons didn’t ever melt away; a defense mechanism in a confusing and unfriendly cycle of people.”

Will sighed and leaned against the counter.

“I’m just a stunted child,” he smirked.

“Perhaps if you had a father figure who gave you the emotional context your mind craved, you would have learned to break away.”

“I did learn to be self-sufficient, though,” Will pointed out.

“Emotionally?”

“Well, no, not that,” Will sniffed with a grin. “I meant physically. I learned how to cook for myself, take care of my own needs. We couldn’t afford new clothes so I was constantly sewing up and patching the ones I had.”

“How old were you when you started making your own meals, sewing your own clothes?”

“I can’t even remember not knowing how to prepare a simple meal. Very young, I suppose. I was probably eight when I learned how to mend clothing. It started out with tape. I, uh… had a rip in the seat of my jeans, so I just covered it with masking tape. I was mocked at school for that, so I taught myself how to sew on a denim patch.”

“Self-sufficiency is admirable,” Hannibal said, finishing his wine, “But there is a time for everything, and you didn’t really have a time for dependency.”

Will looked over the kitchen counter, laden with utensils and fresh ingredients.

“Is that why you are always trying to cook for me?” he asked, eyes gleaming at Dr. Lecter, “To make up for my period of self-sufficiency?”

Hannibal chuckled, “No, I enjoy cooking for all of my friends. There is pleasure in sharing of oneself, and that is how I share.”

He lowered his head and narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment.

“Will, I’d like to try an exercise,” he said.

“A therapeutic exercise?” Will asked, emptying his own wine glass. Hannibal took the glass from him and set it beside the sink.

“If you’ll permit me, I’d like to try and put you into an alternate mind-frame for a short while. I want to see if you can eat this meal from another point in time.”

“What would that entail?”

“Hypnosis,” Hannibal responded.

Will cringed and shook his head.

“I, ah… I don’t think I want someone tinkering around in my brain like that.”

“It’s only an exercise, Will,” Hannibal persuaded, “For a meal between friends.”

Hannibal led Will to a chair and they sat across from each other. Will tried to relax as Hannibal murmured to him in his soft accented voice. The lulling sound pulled him down into reverie.

"You are open to being hypnotized by me," Hannibal said. "You will want me to explore your memories again and again."

When Will became aware of himself once more, he felt very strange.

“Hello Will.”

A man in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and smooth sandy blonde hair sat across from him.

“Hello?” he asked. His voice was light and curious.

“I am a man not unlike your father. I am here to take care of you. You trust me completely.”

Will felt himself agreeing with him.

“You are here to take care of me,” he repeated.

“How old are you, Will?”

Will held up five fingers on his hand, looking at it. In his mind, the hand was small and smooth.

“Five years old?” the man asked, “What do you eat, Will?”

“I make sandwiches,” Will answered. “Hot dogs. Cereal.”

“I’m going to make you something really good to eat,” the man said with a winsome smile. “You can watch me, if you like.”

“Okay,” Will said. Hannibal took his hand and led him into the kitchen. Will stood on the opposite side of the counter while Hannibal lifted a lid from a pan of simmering pork. It smelled spicy and Will’s mouth began to water.

“Would you like to help me with something, Will?”

“Yes,” he answered.

Hannibal plucked an orange out of a bowl of fruit on the counter and sliced it in half. He pushed a manual juicer forward and handed Will one of the halves.

“Push this down.” The man showed him how to position the fruit over the cone and strainer, “And all of the juice will come out in the bottom dish.”

Will followed his instructions. The translucent orange fluid seeped out and the seeds and pulp were caught in the strainer.

“Very good, Will,” Hannibal said. He showed him an encouraging face, a warm smile. Will smiled back.

Will lifted the gutted orange half and the juicy peel slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor. He looked up at the man, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry!” he said, bending down to pick it up.

“It’s all right, Will, it’s no problem at all,” Hannibal said. He walked over and knelt down with a paper towel, wiping up the bit of pulp and juice and taking the peel from Will’s hand.

Will grew tense and he stood a bit awkwardly, looking down at the man’s hands. He placed one of them gently on Will’s back.

“Look at my face, Will,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. “I am not upset.”

He showed Will a beaming smile, his lips parting to show teeth. The edges of his eyes crinkled and he let his head fall back as he gazed up at the boy in the man’s body.

“I’m happy, Will.”

Will felt a nervous giggle erupt from his throat.

“Now we have juice for the pork,” Hannibal continued. He pulled apart the strainer and trickled the orange juice into the simmering pan.

They sat down to eat and Will sniffed his plate and poked at it with his fork.

“It’s different from what you’re used to,” Hannibal said, “But you will like it. It’s sweet and spicy.”

Will took a bite. It was different, but yummy. He watched the man eat. Hannibal smiled back at him and winked.

When they were finished, Hannibal gathered up the dishes and brought them to the kitchen. Will felt full and satisfied.

“Would you like to take a bath?” Hannibal asked.

“Okay,” Will replied. He took the large but gentle hand that was offered him and went upstairs.

Hannibal ran the water into the tub, squirted in a bit of soap, and then began to undress Will. He stood only a couple of inches over him, and was looking at a grown man stand timidly before him, with lean muscled arms and hair at his armpits, groin, and over his legs and arms. From Will’s perspective, the man towered over him and his body was smooth and childish. He felt the fabric of his clothing pull away from him, but the steam from the running bath kept him from shivering. The man’s hands felt good and strong as they helped him over the edge of the tub and lowered him into the warm water.

Will leaned forward and scooped up a layer of bubbles. He blew on them, and they floated away before descending again.

Hannibal watched him play with the suds and felt a strong sense of endearment. The young man’s eyelids were heavy from the meal and the warmth of the water. His long lashes fluttered over the tops of his cheeks and he smiled faintly with delicately curved lips. Hannibal picked up a cloth and submerged it into the soapy water. He lifted it to Will’s shoulder and squeezed the water over the back of his neck and his spine, then he began to dab him with it.

“I can wash myself,” Will said in a light voice.

“I am sure you can,” Hannibal replied, looking him in the eyes, “But it’s nice to have some help sometimes, isn’t it?”

Will nodded. He liked this nice man with the gentle expressions, large helping hands, and soft murmuring voice. He let him wash him as he gathered a pile of suds and applied them to his face and neck.

Hannibal couldn’t help but laugh. Will laughed as well, watching the man’s eyes crinkle and his mouth spread open to show his oddly fanged teeth.

Hannibal dipped a cup into the water and put a hand under Will’s hairline, tipping his head back as he soaked his dark curls and protected his eyes from the water. He lathered up some shampoo and worked it into the soft wet hair.

Will closed his eyes. The fingers felt good massaging his scalp and behind his ears.

“You’re a very good boy, aren’t you Will?” the man asked. Will nuzzled against his wrist as he washed his hair.

Hannibal dipped the cup once more and Will leaned back again for him. Hannibal kept the soapy water out of his eyes and whispered, “Yes, you are a good boy.”

Will felt almost dizzy. Something in his mind was turning over and it was like a hand massaging into a deeply knotted muscle. His childlike brain couldn’t recognize it and he only said, “I feel weird.”

Hannibal chuckled.

“It’s time to get out,” he said. He helped Will stand to his feet, his body spotted with suds.

Hannibal wrapped a warm towel around Will and draped part of it over his head like a hood. He dried his hair and then down his body. Then he helped him out of the tub. He placed a towel on a chair next to the bath and sat Will down, wrapping his towel over his shoulders.

Will watched the man pull out a hairdryer and plug it in. When It roared pleasantly and he felt the gust of hot air hitting the side of his neck and face, he closed his eyes and felt deeply content. Hannibal ran his long fingers through Will’s curls, drying them. Will yawned.

“Getting sleepy?” Hannibal asked over the sound of the dryer.

Will nodded, his eyes opening and shutting, batting his eyelashes. He turned off the dryer and stood over him, brushing his hair through his fingers. Then he crouched down and kissed Will on his forehead. Will smiled at him and rubbed an eye.

“Look at me, Will,” he said. When Will looked back he saw the man’s placid face with eyebrows raised and eyes shining. “I want you to know that you are loved.”

A quiet sound emerged from Will’s throat. Hannibal kissed him again, this time on his cheek.

“You are so loved.”

Will woke up in the chair downstairs, sitting across from Dr. Lecter. He smelled lavender.

“How do you feel, Will?” Dr. Lecter asked.

Will could only smile for a moment. Then he inhaled and said, “Warm. Sleepy. Happy.”

“Wonderful,” Hannibal replied.

“And full,” Will added, “Did we eat?”

“Yes, we did.”

“A shame,” Will sighed. “I’m sure it was delicious.”

He stood up and felt a little hazy. Slipping into bed sounded like the greatest possible thing right now. He noticed that the lavender scent seemed to be coming from his own self. He didn’t ask.

“I’d better be getting home,” Will said, looking at his watch with surprise. “It’s late.”

Hannibal handed him his coat. Will put it on and then stopped, looking over at the man with the gentle face. He felt something tugging inside of him. Suddenly, he walked over and gave him a hug.

“What was that for?” Hannibal chuckled. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I… I don’t know,” Will stammered. “It felt like something I wanted to do.”

“I hope we can have another exercise again,” Hannibal said.

“Yes,” Will agreed, “I’m not opposed to that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Always the new boy at school. Always the stranger."  
> “Always.”

The open area of the gymnasium stretched out in front of him, floating in space. Blurry figures passed by, bumping his shoulders as he remained static. Their faces were as smudged, flesh-colored masks.

"What do you see, Will?" a soft voice seemed to echo off of the walls, above the din of inarticulate shouts and sneakers squeaking on the waxy wood floor. The voice slurred with a heavy European accent and seemed to sift like flour through the teeth and tongue of the speaker.

"I'm in a school gym."

"What does it look like?" the voice asked.

"Like any American school gym."

"This isn't any American school gym," the languid voice murmured. “This is your eighth grade school gym, unlike any other. Describe it to me.”

Will cleared his throat and looked side to side. The room seemed to land on the physical plane. The walls filled in and he felt enclosed.

“There is an emblem on the floor of a wildcat,” he explained, “In red and yellow and white; the school colors. There is a drinking fountain far to my left. A rust stain trickles from the base of the leaky tap to the cruddy drain. From one side it looks like a strange snouted creature with a broken smile.”

“Good. What else?”

“It smells like varnish and… stale popcorn. The dark wood bleachers are pushed in against the wall. One row isn’t entirely flush with the rest. It bothers me.”

“Who is there with you?”

“My classmates,” he replied.

“Who, specifically? Remember their names.”

“Ahh…” Will strained to think. The figures began to focus into his view. Their masked faces took on distinct features. “B.J. Bruckhaus, Clint Vorhees, Jonathan Miller…”

He could see Jonathan the clearest. He was a tall, bulky kid, very large for his age and persistently aggressive-looking. A hive of memories clung to him; various mistreatments at his hands.

“What are they doing?”

“We are all playing basketball, for P.E. Shirts vs. skins,” he grimaced. “I got skins.”

“And what about you, Will? Describe yourself to me.”

Will looked down. He saw his pale, freckled chest and the sharp angles of his collarbone. His oversized shorts were pulled up high on his waist in an attempt to cover as much as possible. His knees were scuffed and dry.

“I’m skinny,” he said. “My shorts came from a thrift store and don’t really fit. My shoes are worn and tufted with escaping fibers. The coach told me not to wear street shoes in the gym. I didn’t have new shoes, so I kept wearing them. He stopped bringing it up. I think he realized… that I couldn’t afford anything else.”

Will paused and then added, “I am ugly.”

“Why, Will?” the voice asked. “What makes you ugly?”

Will’s voice creaked, “I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

“Who else is there?”

“My gym coach, Mr. Lambley,” he answered.

Mr. Lambley’s face came into view. He called out instructions to the boys.

“And if Will isn’t where he’s supposed to be,” Will said, but his voice came from Mr. Lambley’s mouth. “You have my permission to get him there.”

“You are in the moment, Will,” the voice said. “Experience it.”

Will cringed at Mr. Lambley’s words. He often wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He slouched awkwardly, watching the other boys dart around, seeing their faces when they glanced at him and rolled their eyes. Every look they made he questioned and he felt like a spectator wandering onto the floor and bumping into the players, throwing them off their game. They shoved him, and glowered at him. Every contact they made with him sent shivers through his frame.

“Jesus, fucking move out of the way,” B.J. snapped, “Do something useful.”

Will thought of his father watching him fiddle with tools on machinery, eyeing his every mistake with uninterpretable blankness.

“Stay in the gym,” the floating voice came back to him. “Don’t travel elsewhere.”

“I’m always traveling elsewhere,” Will whispered.

He stripped away the layers of thought and sub-thought. He couldn’t move properly. He couldn’t concentrate on what was happening, or what he should do in this moment to appeal to the other boys and the coach, so he just stood still.

He felt a hand latch onto his arm. It squeezed him, digging into his thin muscles and causing a sharp pain.

“Over here,” Jonathan snarled.

His body pressed up against him and the hand he had wrapped around his skinny arm yanked so hard that he thought it might pop out of his socket. The unsolicited touch sent a panic through him. He felt as though the fingers would never leave his skin, branding a set of fingerprints onto him. It seemed to burn and he trembled and sent his arm flying back in compulsive retaliation. His elbow jabbed into Jonathan’s face, and the hand released its grip and flew up in defense.

“Will Graham!” the couch shouted.

Will turned to Jonathon, his mouth open, his head shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean…”

Jonathon socked him in the nose. He felt a blinding sting and a swelling congestion in the bridge of it and under his eyes. He tasted coppery blood in the back of his throat.

“Hey!” Mr. Lambley called out and ran over. “Cut it out!”

“He hit me!” Jonathan insisted, holding his own nose.

“Yeah, I saw,” Mr. Lambley replied, glaring at Will.

“I didn’t mean to,” Will said. “I just… don’t like to be touched.”

Mr. Lambley looked disgusted with him. Will felt as though his throat were closing. He saw the faces of the other classmates looking over at him, shaking their heads, muttering to each other.

“Psycho,” he heard one of them say.

“Listen, Will,” Mr. Lambley announced with pure disdain. Will felt his entire body grow hot with shame. “This is my team. Don’t you… ever… hit a member of my team again, do you understand?”

Mr. Lambley turned to Jonathan.

“And you just cool it,” he said. “Let me handle things.”

“Yes coach,” Jonathan replied. The knowing glance they exchanged made Will’s stomach lurch.

“Hit the showers!” Lambley ordered. “And Will... give me ten laps.”

When Will finished his laps he walked down the concrete stairs into the empty locker room. His clothes were missing from the locker he’d shoved them into. He found them in the toilets, where his classmates had soaked them with their urine. Gritting his teeth, he plucked up the soggy piss-smelling clothes and rinsed them in the shower then wrung them out as best he could. He only put on the shirt and stuffed the rest into his tattered backpack. Then he made his way out into the hallway, grateful that this was his last class of the day.

“Don’t go home, Will,” the heavy voice emerged once more. “Turn into an office.”

Will obeyed the voice, and walked into a blank room. There was no memory there, nothing but an empty white space.

“This is the room you are in, the room I am in.”

Will opened his eyes and found himself sitting in a leather armchair across from a gentleman in a three piece suit. The man sat with his legs crossed, leaned back in his chair, one hand draped over the front of the armrest. He smiled warmly at him.

“I am your favorite teacher,” he said. “A man you respect and admire. You know I like you. You can talk to me about anything.”

Will nodded in a daze.

“How did this conflict in the gym make you feel?”

Will furrowed his brow and sighed.

“Misunderstood,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

“You feel like an outsider?”

Will sniffed and looked down. He was still wearing the damp shirt and oversized gym shorts. He was still a skinny teenage boy, and now he was in a room with his favorite teacher. He felt safer.

“Mr. Lambley said that I hit a member of his team. I am not a member of his team.”

“You are an intruder.”

“They hate me,” Will continued.

“How does their hatred affect you?”

“I am not a person to them,” His voice cracked as he spoke, “And yet, I know how they feel.”

“You can empathize with them?”

“I see their behavior and the way they dress and talk to each other. I see their relationships and watch how they learn. I know them so well. They do not know me. They will never know me.”

“You are a ghost.”

Will shuddered and nodded, biting his lip.

“They will forget me the moment I move again. I will never forget them.”

“Did it feel good to hit Jonathan?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Will responded.

“I know you didn’t, Will. Did it feel good when you hit someone who bullied you?”

Will strained his neck and nodded very slightly.

“For a moment. Just for a moment.”

The man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Will,” he said. “You do not like to be touched, and they had no right to put their hands on you. Mr. Lambley had no right to give them carte blanche to bully you.”

Will nodded. The words seemed to soak into his skin and cause his throat muscles to relax and swallow away the painful lump. He smiled weakly.

“I won’t forget you, Will,” the man said. “You have been important to me. I see enormous potential in you. For the rest of my life I will remember my favorite student who I only had the pleasure of teaching for a single year. I will wonder about you. I will wish I could have known you longer. Somehow, I will know that you achieved great things in your life, because I already know that you are special.”

Will exhaled sharply as tears welled in his eyes.

“Will, I am going to count backwards from three, and when I reach one you will awaken from this. You will be your current self, sitting here with me. You will remember nothing of your experience except for the emotions that you feel.”

Will’s eyes grew heavy.

“Three,” the voice continued in a lulling tone. “You are emerging steadily. Two… you are feeling yourself return to your current state. One. You are fully awake.”

Will opened his eyes and looked back at Hannibal Lecter. He shook his head and lifted his hands to his face. He wiped the tears from under his eyes with his thumbs.

“God,” he said in his pleasantly creaking voice, “Was I crying?”

“Only a little,” Hannibal reassured him with a smile. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs once more.

“Why?” Will asked in a tone of forced cheek, his eyebrow raised.

“Just smoothing out some wrinkles in your memories,” Hannibal replied. “How do you feel?”

Will lay his head back and stared upward at the ceiling of the room.

“I feel…” he searched for the word with darting eyes, “A unique sense of vindication.”

Hannibal nodded.

“I feel good,” Will added.

“Good,” Hannibal replied.


End file.
